


Island Breeze

by Arsenic



Category: DC Extended Universe, DCU (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Wonder Woman (2017)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Nightmares, Past Torture, Pre-Relationship, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-07
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 16:05:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17686652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arsenic/pseuds/Arsenic
Summary: Steve asks an old acquaintance for help finding Bucky.





	Island Breeze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DesertVixen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesertVixen/gifts).



> This is unbeta'ed, I apologize recip, but with the way my life has been, it was between betaing and fleshing the story out a bit, and I chose the latter.
> 
> You mentioned that you weren't crazy about the suggestion that Diana just sits things out for a century, I wasn't either, so I kind of messed with canon. Also, sorry it's pre-relationship, but I needed another 10k to get one even started, and I didn't have the time.

Diana doesn’t talk with Steve Rogers much. It’s not that she dislikes him, and she’s fairly certain he enjoys her as a person as well. She thinks, mostly, that by being who they are, both of them inadvertently poke at each other’s scars, peel back the top-layer of wounds still unhealed. 

He calls her on a Tuesday morning and says, “Bucky’s alive,” says, “he’s been operating as the Winter Soldier,” says, “I need your help.”

Diana thinks about Bruce’s files on the Winter Soldier. There are children’s corpses in those files. 

She thinks about the man she met on a battlefield, standing stalwartly next to Captain America, ready to get in between a scientifically altered man and the world.  
She says, “Tell me where to meet you.”

*

Diana isn’t thrilled at the idea of heading to Avengers Tower, mostly because accepting Tony Stark’s hospitality feels a little like betraying Bruce. When she’d mentioned where she was going to the League, though, Bruce had just said, “If you need help, you know where to find us.”

Kal had been a bit more reserved, which was something of a role reversal. Diana hadn’t questioned it because she wasn’t sure she wanted to get in to a conversation about why she was helping Steve Rogers rescue the Winter Soldier.

She doesn’t want to talk about planes going down in war time, about men falling to their death. She chooses silence instead.

*

By the time she reaches Steve, he’s been hospitalized on account of Bucky, who’s definitely alive, definitely the Winter Soldier, and who almost definitely dragged Steve out of the Potomac. Sam Wilson, an ex-pararescue watching over Steve, and Natasha Romanoff catch her up on what they know. It’s not a lot.

Natasha says, “I’m gonna call some favors in, see what I can find out.”

Diana nods. “I might have a few favors to call in as well.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Steve said you guys weren’t exactly close during the war, but that you’d help. This just a superhero thing, or—”

They hadn’t been close. For one, Diana had been unwilling to serve under any particular army during World War II, spending much more of her time aiding in guerilla and resistance warfare in Poland and France. For another, she’d still been pretty intent on not being close with people she might actually come to care about.

“Or,” she says, shrugging, smiling slightly. Diana has spent most of her life being guided by what her instincts tell her is the right thing to do. Maybe that will stop someday, but she’s not there yet.

*

Diana heads to Skopelos on a tip from Arthur. Evidently the locals have been complaining about a cyborg haunting some of the area woodlands. She doesn’t tell Steve at first, because at least half the time Arthur’s grapevine gets something wrong, or it’s an alien problem, in which case, she’ll just call Hal.

It takes her a couple of days to track the maybe-cyborg. Whoever it is, they’re good. She’s a little surprised the locals even noticed anything. Still, she was always good at tracking, and Skopelos has similar terrain to parts of Themyscira. When she finds the rumored cyborg, she doesn’t sneak up on him. Rather, she gives him plenty of warning, mostly to see if he’ll run.

Diana’s a bit surprised he doesn’t. Instead, he tilts his head and says, “You’re not Hydra.”

She has no idea how he knows that, but it’s the truth so, “No. My name’s Diana. We knew each other.”

He nods slowly at that. He looks…well, terrible. Like he’s been living rough, sleeping in trees, and probably surviving off foliage. His hair is snarled, there are bags under his eyes, and the hand that isn’t metal has a shake to it. After a moment, he says, “I don’t remember. Sorry.”

People don’t normally forget Diana, but then, most people haven’t had repeated electrical lobotomies over the past fifty years. “Not important.”

“Why—are you here to take me in?”

She swallows. “I’m—there’s someone who’s worried about you.”

“The man I fought. He’s called Steve Rogers.”

“Yes.”

He wraps his flesh hand around a nearby branch, squeezing until the crack of it breaking is sharp in the relative quiet of the mid-afternoon air. “I don’t remember him. Not—not the way I should.”

“He won’t care.”

“I do,” he says.

Diana can’t say she understands, but she can sympathize. “I won’t make you go anywhere you don’t want to, but—give me a chance to convince you otherwise.”

He toes at the ground a bit, frowning thoughtfully. The frown softens into something that isn’t quite a smile. “Pretty sure I used to do anything a gorgeous lady like yourself suggested I do.”

It’s the kind of line Diana would normally roll her eyes at. The uncertainty in his voice, the way he seems to be poking at the insides of himself to find his own limits allows her to laugh at the joke instead.

*

He follows her to the home she’s rented in a particularly quiet area of the island, and stands in the main room, appearing lost. She takes a long, slow breath, enjoying the salt in the air. “I bought some horiatiko psomi from a bakery this morning. Hungry?”

His nod is cautious. If he eats anything like herself or Kal or—if she’s remembering correctly—Steve, he has to be starving. Even if he’s been hunting wildlife, she doubts he’s been managing nearly enough calories a day. She sets the bread on the table in the kitchen area of the home, and pulls a jam she’d picked up at a market stall that morning as well from the fridge. “There’s butter, too, but no honey. I prefer jam.”

He looks at the floor, clearly concentrating. Gritting his teeth he admits, “I don’t remember either.”

She slices the bread and puts a few slices on a plate for him, along with a butter knife for the jam. “Maybe your tastes have changed anyway.”

His head comes up at that. He blinks at her. She shrugs. “It’s been over half a century, and altered or not, you’re human. That’s a long time for your tastes not to have changed.”

He thinks that over for a bit, then nods his head in a determined fashion, as though heading into battle. Gently, she says, “There’s soap by the sink.”

His cheeks pinken and he starts, “My ma woulda—” there’s an abrupt stop to the sentiment. Diana doesn’t push. Whether he can’t remember or doesn’t want to talk about a family long dead, she can allow him his silence. 

She turns her back as he scrubs. It takes long enough that she’s not surprised to see the flesh of his right arm reddened all the way up to the elbow. He sits at the table across from her and dips the knife into the jam, spreading a bit over one piece of the bread before taking a bite. Swallowing he says, “I think I prefer jam, too.”

She rolls her eyes. “You can’t make that comparison without _comparing_ the two.”

He takes another bite. “Can’t I?”

The question is clearly serious, an inquiry into what she can or cannot tell him to do. She tells him, “Your decisions are your own. But without trying, you won’t know if you love honey or not, and that would be a shame.”

Spreading more of the jam over the bread, he says, “Well, right now I like jam best.”

Diana supposes if she’d had most of her life stolen from her, she might be pretty determined to live in the moment as well.

*

There is a courtyard at the back of the house, walled in and decently private. It sports an outdoor shower meant for rinsing off sand and other beach-grime, and a patio with a daybed, some chairs, and a small table. When they’ve finished breakfast, Diana leads Bucky out there.

She gestures at the shower and says, “It only gets lukewarm.” But the day is already heating up nicely, and he won’t feel penned in. “I’ll grab you some shampoo and soap, a towel. I haven’t got anything for you to change into, but if you’re comfortable sleeping out here for a bit without clothing, I can head into town and grab some things.”

“I have money,” he says. 

When she blinks, he looks as though he’s trying to smile. “Hacked Hydra’s accounts as soon as enough of the conditioning wore off to allow it.”

Whatever he’s taken, it can’t be nearly what they owe him in backpay alone, leaving aside damages. “Have you converted it?”

“Enough for clothes and groceries and anything else you might want to pick up.”

She feels foolish asking, nonetheless, “You’re all right with me leaving you here?”

He eyes the daybed and says, “Gonna give that sleeping thing a shot.”

The shadows around his eyes are eloquent, and she tells him, “If you can’t, I’ve left my tablet. I’ve several subscriptions: music streaming, video, books, audiobooks. Find something to enjoy.”

He nods, tightly, as if having been given a mission. She just barely manages not to wince, instead going to get the toiletries and the towel. She finds the largest and fluffiest one in the house and brings it out to him. When she hands it over, her hand brushes the plated vibranium of his left hand and he stills. She doesn’t flinch, instead twists her hand so that she can give his fingers a squeeze. “Enjoy the shower.”

She’s nearly out of the house when she hears a murmured, “Thanks.”

*

Diana takes her time, hoping the solitude will allow Bucky to settle and rest. She picks up some linen pants and cotton shirts, breezy clothing that will be soft against his skin. He strikes her as in desperate need of softness.

After that she spends time finding cheeses, olives, nuts, a good cut of salmon, and some oranges. She’s not a dietician, but common sense says he needs fat, protein, and snacks so he can learn to eat at will. She also picks up a gallon of milk and some fresh baklava.

Upon returning to the house, she makes enough noise that if he is awake, he will not be startled by her approach. A little bit of reconnaissance finds him on the daybed out back, curled onto his side, the towel draped over his lower half. 

His upper half is—quite the sight. Diana has seen what Bruce looks like stripped to the waist, and Oliver as well. They both are graced with extensive scaring, old and toughened, new and pink. Bucky is something else entirely. For one thing, in addition to the spots where he was clearly hit by bullets, knives, possibly shrapnel or glass or other types of projectiles encountered in combat, are the thick lines across his back, over his upper chest. A bullwhip could have caused those in a person with average healing, but Diana isn’t certain what had to be done to cause them in a man with accelerated healing. There are branding marks, burn spots that don’t appear to be from fire, but possibly chemical. 

All in all, his skin is a map of nightmares.

Likewise, he twitches in his sleep, silent as death, even his breathing abnormally quiet. He needs the sleep, though. She runs a hand through her hair, leaves the clothing where he will see it when he wakes, and forces herself to go back inside, where she puts away the groceries and brews a cup of coffee.

The windows are all open and there’s a good breeze circulating in the house. She curls up on the sofa and does her best to lose herself in the newest Zadie Smith.

*

Diana has begun grilling the fish when Bucky comes back in the house, dressed in the clothes she left him. She’s heard him rustling around out there for the better part of half an hour, but hasn’t intruded. His hair is pulled back into a neat bun despite her not leaving him any hairbands. Honestly, she tells him, “Better.”

He nods in agreement. “I, uh. I can probably help.”

He doesn’t sound as sure as she’d bet he’s trying to. She smiles and pushes the jar of olives she picked up toward him. “Help me eat these. Alone I’ll finish them and then not want dinner, which would be a shame, since it’s also going to be delicious.”

She watches in her peripheral vision as he takes one and considers it before placing it in his mouth. He _experiences_ it, rolling it over his tongue and then gently biting into it, pronouncing, “Salty.”

“Mm.”

He takes another one, though, so she presumes that wasn’t a criticism. “There is a pitcher of water in the fridge.”

Bucky takes the hint and finds the pitcher, and then two glasses, pouring them each one. She takes her and drinks, saying, “Thank you.”

He looks at the olive jar and says, “Least I could do.”

*

Together they polish off the salmon, the oranges, the baklava, and most of the olives. Diana watches Bucky carefully to make sure he seems satisfied. He must catch on, because he asks, “What do you see?”

She takes a moment with the question. It’s not just that she’s uncertain of the answer, she’s uncertain of the question itself. Nonetheless, she offers, “A person, definitely. Not the one I knew, I don’t think, but I didn’t know him all that well, and we all change over time. You…I suppose in an odd way you remind me of Kal. People forget that for all he has a family and a life here, he is the product of having lost everything, having his home and his people ripped away from him.”

She can see him flipping through his mental files, the moment he catches on. “Kal-El. You’re comparing me to Superman.”

“I’m saying I see parallels.”

“Most people see a nightmare. The monster under the bed.”

“The monster under the bed doesn’t exist, and people awaken from nightmares,” Diana counters.

He catches her eye. “Do they?”

He’s not asking about people. The fear in his expression is too pronounced for that. She takes a deep breath. “Would it help if I stayed with you while you slept?”

His confusion at the offer is heartbreaking. She keeps herself silent, though, allowing him to sort through his reactions. Finally, he admits, “I don’t know. Doesn’t seem worth the risk that I could lash out.”

She laughs at that. She doesn’t mean to, it just bursts out of her. “You won’t break me.”

“Did a pretty good job on Captain America. I saw the news reports.”

“According to my sources, he might have been letting you for much of it, and also, I’m less breakable than Steve Rogers.”

He blinks at that. “I—I guess I’d like to try.”

“Okay, but separate blankets. I get testy when people steal my blankets.”

“Seems only right.” 

She smiles and stands to stick their plates in the sink. He beats her to it. She thinks there might be more of the man he used to be in him than either of them can see just now.

*

Diana opens all the windows in the bedroom, egress or otherwise. The breeze off the ocean is a bit cooler than usual, but she doesn’t mind. Bucky gives her a look of gratitude at a level somewhat unwarranted for the simple kindness. She smiles, because it’s that, or wail.

He scratches his neck in a charmingly shy move. “Uh. I—If I could be closest to the door—”

She cuts him off with an, “Mhm,” and slips into bed.

It takes him a while to move toward the bed. Diana wraps a blanket around herself, closes her eyes, and tries to relax despite the anxiety radiating off of him. She has no idea how long it is before there is a dip in the bed behind her. She murmurs, “Sweet dreams,” and lets herself drift off.

*

Diana expects to awaken to Bucky’s agitation, or violence, or even panic. She does not expect to awaken to what can only be described as aggressive cuddling. She very consciously forces herself not to stiffen up. It’s not that she minds being cuddled, although, as a general rule, she prefers to consent prior to the cuddling. It’s not even that she minds being cuddled by a guy she doesn’t know who might try to kill her in the next instance. It’s that she hasn’t foreseen this and is therefore taken off guard, and not excellent at adapting to being taken off guard by people who could be a deadly enemy. She feels this is eminently reasonable.

It takes a couple of deep breaths to get back to where she’s truly calm, as opposed to doing her best imitation of it. At which point, she shifts ever so slightly to curl further into him, and goes back to sleep.

*

Diana feels Bucky come awake. She laughs when he says, “This…is happening.”

Quietly, not wanting to spook him, she says, “You’re better than a blanket.”

“You—you don’t mind?” 

He seems caught between rolling over and showing his belly or fleeing, so she brings her hand to his lower back, carefully sliding it beneath his shirt, and rubbing slow circles in his skin. It’s more scar than skin. “I thought we were cuddling. Cuddling is nice.”

He laughs. It’s a nervous sound, hard to identify. “Is that what this is?”

She keeps up the caress. “What would you call it?”

“I…” He presses his back into her fingers. “Warm. It’s warm.”

“And you’ve been cold.”

He makes a noise that might be a sob, or the closest thing he can manage at this point, and goes still. She says, “Breathe, darling.”

He obeys, shuddering with the exhale. His next inhale seems to come easier, though. He asks, “Have you been cold?”

Diana isn’t certain cold is the correct term. Bereft, empty, lost. Metaphorically, though, she supposes it holds. “I think we all are, for a time. I have been cold enough to know how badly one can need to feel warm.”

“And if I don’t deserve to have my needs met?”

“You’ll have to find someone else to judge you. I’m disinclined.”

There’s a long moment, long enough she thinks he might have fallen asleep again, and then he says, “Maybe later? I’d…like to stay, for a bit. If you don’t mind.”

She rolls her head slightly, enough to kiss lightly at the crest of his shoulder. “Not at all.”


End file.
